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The envelope was thick, cream-colored, and sealed with old-fashioned wax that had begun to crumble at the corners. / Chapter 3 / 6

Chapter 3 - THE VULTURE’S PRICE

Arthur Vance stepped out of the private elevator smelling of cheap cigars and wet wool. He was a bloated man with watery eyes and a smile that didn't reach his cheeks. Behind him, flashing red light from a hidden pocket camera peeked out of a coat pocket, though Marcus moved with terrifying efficiency, snatching the device before the shutter could click.

"Gideon! Look at you!" Arthur boomed, spreading his arms wide as if they were old college buddies. "Titan of industry. Savior of the homeless. And yet, you missed a family reunion."

Gideon didn't offer his hand. He stood in the center of the vast living room, his hands shoved deep into his trousers, blocking the hallway that led to Mila’s bedroom.

"You have two minutes, Arthur, before I have Marcus throw you off the balcony," Gideon said quietly. The lack of volume made the threat infinitely more terrifying.

Arthur’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second before he recovered, laughing wetly. "Tough. Always the corporate shark. But you slipped up this time, Vale. You’ve got Clara’s kid locked up in here. And the world is going to love the story: Billionaire CEO abandons lover, leaves lovechild to freeze on the streets. Think what that does to your stock prices when the shareholders meeting hits next Tuesday."

Mila, peeking out from the hallway with her backpack clutched to her chest, heard every word.

Gideon didn't blink. He took two slow steps toward Arthur, his height and sheer physical presence pressing the older man back against the mahogany door.

"You think this is about stock prices?" Gideon’s voice was a low, dangerous hiss. "You think you can walk into my home, threaten a child, and walk out with a paycheck?"

"It’s not a threat, it’s math," Arthur sneered, pulling a crumpled paper from his pocket. "Two million dollars, and I lose the flash drives, the adoption certificates, and my silence. Otherwise, child services gets an anonymous tip that you’re holding an unverified minor under false pretenses."

Before Gideon could move, a small shadow slipped past his leg.

Mila walked right up to Arthur Vance, her chin tilted up, shivering slightly in the oversized cashmere sweater Gideon had given her.

"You're a bad man," Mila said clearly, her voice echoing in the silent penthouse. "Mommy said you used to steal her painting money to buy whiskey."

Arthur’s face flushed a deep, ugly purple. He raised a heavy hand, his fingers curling into a fist, aiming a slap straight down at the little girl's face.

Crack.

The sound was explosive.

Gideon didn't just move; he intercepted the blow by grabbing Arthur’s wrist with a grip so ferocious the bones in the older man’s hand ground together. Arthur shrieked, dropping to his knees as Gideon twisted his arm behind his back.

"Marcus," Gideon said, his breathing heavy, his eyes burning with a dark, primal fury. "Throw him out. And if he comes within five miles of this building again, make sure he wakes up in federal custody."

As Marcus dragged the screaming, cursing man back into the elevator, Gideon dropped to one knee in front of Mila.

Her cheek was pink from the sheer wind of Arthur’s swing, but she hadn't flinched. She stared at Gideon with Clara’s exact look of stubborn, defiant survival.

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The ink on the emergency audit report was barely dry when the secure terminal on my desk flashed a violent crimson. I hadn't slept in thirty-six hours, my eyes burning from staring at columns of ghost figures, duplicate invoices, and shell corporations linked to Dominic Rossi. But the red alert wasn’t from Rossi’s faction. It was an internal security flag originating from the estate’s main vault deep beneath the west wing.

The ink on the emergency audit report was barely dry when the secure ter...

The glass shattered into a thousand tiny diamonds on the marble, scattering the light from the chandeliers. The muffled laughter died instantly, replaced by a suffocating, heavy silence that crept outward from the grand staircase.

The glass shattered into a thousand tiny diamonds on the marble, scatter...

The heavy oak doors of my private study clicked shut behind us, locking out the clinical, terrifying silence of the kitchen. Evelyn Crane stood stiffly in front of my mahogany desk, her hands folded over her apron with the rigid precision of someone who had spent decades micromanaging every square inch of my estate. Behind her, Norah hovered near the doorway, clutching her clipboard like a shield.

The heavy oak doors of my private study clicked shut behind us, locking...

"You didn't have to do that," she whispered.

"I told you," Gideon said, his hand coming up to gently touch her shoulder, his thumb brushing away a stray tear she refused to shed. "I'm not letting anyone hurt you again. Not him. Not anyone."

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